


Reflection

by Alexa_Piper



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Christmas Truce 2020, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Time for some soul-searching!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29043723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexa_Piper/pseuds/Alexa_Piper
Summary: Inside the thermos, there wasn’t much else to do but seethe.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnotherSmartFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherSmartFangirl/gifts).



> A backup Truce gift for Danthectoman/Anothersmartfangirl. I hope it fits the prompt well enough for you!

There wasn’t much else to do but seethe.

His body, compressed down to mist, strained against the smooth metal walls. He pressed, and prodded, and tried again and again to pop the seal, but it held eternally firm, and he was left with nothing but thoughts in the darkness.

So he softly settled, like low-lying fog across fields, and sulked.

His anger pulsed at first, and every time he thought about things, his core would flare and he would pound himself against the lid once more. Still, it never budged, and he always ended up sinking back into simmering stillness before his thoughts caught up with him and his fury inevitably swelled again.

It was a dark, stagnant cycle, and he didn’t know how long it had been going on until a tiny thought wormed its way through the haze of agitation.  _ Jazz would be disappointed. _

It caught him off-guard, and he paused in yet another attempt to break the seal.

She would be, wouldn’t she?

The thought held a bite of anger, and he coiled in readiness to throw himself against the lid again, but before he could lose himself in his rage he managed to picture her. Time had worn her smooth, and she was little more than long red hair pulled away from her face with a teal headband, and fragments of smiles and hugs that always carried more love than he ever felt from anyone else. He pooled again at the bottom of the thermos, trying to fit the glimpses of memory back together. He couldn’t picture her fully, but the more he tried, the more she slid into place in his mind.

His parents followed quickly, and sorrow pricked his core when he realised that he couldn’t remember what his mother’s smile looked like, or the scent of the aftershave that his dad had worn. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to think about them, and now this tiny effort was far too late.

The deep, hollow ache in his core flared up, like an old wound that never really went away, and he curled in on himself. He wanted to stop thinking about them, to make the yawning emptiness fade into the background once again, but he just couldn’t stop himself… His family sprang back to the forefront, whose faces were blurred by time, and who had never known the truth about him. He wondered if things would have been different, had they known. He tried to picture it — ghost hunting with his parents, or making ectocookies, or trying to dodge Jazz when she ruffled his hair after he had easily caught The Box Ghost yet again.

The imagined scenes brought a fresh wave of pain. He’d never told them, and now they’d never know, because they were  _ dead. _ They were dead, and it was his fault.

He had no physical body to cry with in the thermos, but he burned with the thick heat of grief, and Dan wrapped his misty form tighter around his core. He stayed there, pressed against the cold circular floor of his prison, while his core trembled and his mind dwelt on the little things that made up the people he’d lost. If he thought about it, he could  _ almost _ smell Sam’s shampoo, or picture the shape and colour of Tucker’s glasses. He didn’t remember if Jazz’s shirt had been black or white that day, or if his parents had been holding hands when they walked into the meeting. He spared a small thought for Mr Lancer too, but then returned to trying to recall what his mother’s perfume smelled like.

He dug deeper into his memory, and every resurfacing detail felt like pulling out a splinter. It was painful in the moment, but once he stopped fighting the memory, and allowed the thoughts to linger, the pain was not so much that of continual hurt, but more akin to the ache of healing.

Sam’s shampoo had been a vegan one that smelled like roses, and Tucker’s glasses were large half-moons with black frames. Jazz’s shirt was also black, his mother smelled like orange blossoms, and right there at the end, they  _ had  _ been holding hands.

He missed them.

He missed them, and there, coiled as compressed ectoplasmic mist, he realised that he still loved them.

He had no mouth or throat, but Dan’s amorphous body clenched and spasmed in the closest thing to a cry, and he tried to remember as much as he could.

He reached for old memories, of the sound of screeching locker doors, and that his mother would always fold his socks so that the edges lined up perfectly, and how sand felt when it crunched and squeezed between his toes, and Dan realised that his family and friends weren’t the only people he missed.

He missed rain on his skin, and the taste of lime, and the way it felt to sleep in jeans after a long day, and a million other little things that made up the sum of life.

He missed Danny.

He missed himself.

He’d never thought that before, so swept up in the rage of abandonment, and then… then the rage of  _ bloodlust. _ His core shivered, and he tried not to think about it. He tried to dredge up those nicer, softer memories, of picnics and sunsets and  _ life, _ but every attempt was swept away by the sheer force of blood-drenched gloves and dying, screaming souls.

He’d started with himself, and then had never stopped… but now that he’d  _ been  _ stopped, and left in a soup can to rot? Now, he had time to  _ think _ , and the more he thought, the more he remembered.

People had been so easy to kill. At the time, it gave him a rush of excitement, of winning the hunt… but now, if he’d had a stomach, it would have been rolling with bile. Unlike the hazy memories of happier times, he could picture every person he’d killed in crystal clear detail.

They rushed him, breaking through the mental walls that he tried to throw up, until all he could do was cower at the bottom of the thermos and face how each of them had looked in their final moments. Each terrified expression drove shards of revulsion deeper into his core, and these visions continued in an unrelenting wave until he had revisited every single victim, and felt the horror and guilt that had been so absent when their lives had ebbed away beneath his cruel fingers. He didn’t know how long it took, but when it was over, all he could do was lie there and steep in the blood that stained his soul.

He wished he had never done it.

He would do  _ anything _ to have never done it.

As soon as the thought presented itself, Dan felt a vibration stutter through his prison. The thermos shuddered, and then the compression was  _ gone, _ and Dan burst out of the darkness into a light that burned his eyes with its sudden intensity after so long in the darkness. He curled in mid-air, pressing the heels of newly-formed palms against freshly-made eyes and hissing in discomfort.

When he finally came to himself, the first thing he noticed was a soft, repetitive ticking. It was strangely familiar but misplaced, like the wrong lyrics being sung to a familiar tune. Dan shuddered, dropping his hands and squinting in the light. His core fluttered with the strain of his unrelenting emotional storm, and if he were a weaker being he might have worried about it collapsing due to stress.

He glanced around, frowning at the sight of a ghost screwing the cap back onto the thermos.

“Who are you?”

The ghost regarded him with red eyes, one of which was struck through by an impressive scar. “You know who I am.”

Its voice rasped like sand shifting, and brought to mind the endless dunes of a desert, eternally changing with the ravages of time.

He did know. “Why now?” Dan snapped, but the snippiness was somewhat lost from his tone as his core heaved with fresh guilt. “When I first learned of your existence, and searched the Ghost Zone, I could never find you.”

The ghost didn’t respond, and Dan shook his head as anger finally began to trickle back into his core. It pushed the guilt aside in its demand to be felt. “You… you hid from me!” he shouted, flinging out an arm for emphasis. “You  _ knew _ what I would do, but when I came to find you, to… to  _ fix this,” _ he gestured to himself, “you left me on my own! What did that  _ other _ Danny have that  _ I _ wasn’t good enough for, Old Man?!”

The ghost of time rippled, and his form changed into a younger man. “Come,” he said, and floated through an open archway set in the wall.

Dan paused. The room he’d been released into was nothing more than a small alcove, with a pedestal that must have housed the thermos up until now. Frustration bloomed in him, but it was quickly overcome with a spark of disbelief.

He was free?

After so long, it felt impossible. He immediately yearned for open spaces, whether the expanse of the Zone or the wide blue sky of Earth, it didn’t matter. He just had to get out of here.

He  _ could _ run, but if that strange cloaked ghost with the ticking clock in its chest really was who Dan suspected, then he doubted that he’d get very far. Besides, it’s not like he had anywhere that he could run  _ to,  _ anyway.

Loneliness ripped through him, and Dan clenched his teeth and flew through the archway before the crushing grief could come pouring back. “Hey!” he shouted, speeding to catch up with the figure that was floating leisurely down a long, narrow corridor lined with large clock faces that all displayed different times.

The other ghost reached a door recessed between two massive clock faces just as Dan caught up. “Come, Daniel.”

The simple address struck him like a blow, and Dan recoiled, his hand flying to his chest to clutch at the HAZMAT. “That’s not my name,” he choked. “I’m not…  _ him.” _

The time ghost paused with a hand on the ornate doorknob. “Maybe not the way you used to be,” he demurred, “but in many ways, Daniel, you’re still you.”

Dan’s core clenched, and the shadows behind the clocks deepened as his hair flared in an inferno of white flames. “Don’t you get it, Clockwork?” he shrieked, the slight tether of self-control crumbling away. “I _killed_ people! Millions and millions of _innocent people!_ I murdered children, and can still see their faces, and feel their blood dripping off my hands! I am _not_ your _precious_ _Daniel!”_

Clockwork’s hand dropped back to his side, and he turned so that they were facing each other. His gaze was soft and achingly sad, and the ticking of the clock inlaid in his chest sparked a pang of longing that Dan didn’t even know he could still feel.

He shoved it away. “Why didn’t you save me?” he choked, and his core felt like it would smother him. “You saved  _ him, _ with your time travel and your second chances. What was so special about him, anyway? Why did  _ he  _ get them back, while  _ I  _ became his  _ lesson?” _

Clockwork folded his arms across his chest. The watches lining his wrists flashed in the brilliant light of Dan’s hair. “Saving comes in many ways, Daniel. If I wasn’t going to help you then you’d still be in that thermos.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped.

Sad red eyes bored into his. “Don’t you wish that you could take it all back?”

The question pierced him to his soul, and Dan faltered, sinking so that his feet hit the tiles. His knees buckled and he sagged, leaning against the wall and grasping his chest as a half-forgotten sound squeezed where his ribs should have been and wormed its way up his throat and out through gritted teeth. It took a moment to recognise the sob for what it was, and by then, another one had broken out as well.

He tamped down on the emotion, blinking burning eyes and leaning heavily against the wall. “Yes,” he choked. “I… I want nothing more.”

The ancient ghost sighed, and it sounded like the faraway chime of a forgotten clock. “Come,” he said again, reaching for the handle once more and swinging the door open. “You are my ward, Daniel, no matter what form you take. I would fight all powers in the realms to give you peace.”

Dan blinked as an undeniable warmth wrapped itself around his core. “Oh,” he breathed, and for a moment, the pain melted away and he felt like Danny Fenton for the first time in what could have easily been a thousand years. It was nice, but overwhelming in its abruptness, and he sank to his knees. “But… but I’m still half Plasmius,” he managed to say past the swelling comfort that cocooned him like a blanket.

Clockwork shrank until he was in the form of a child, his eyes once again level with Dan’s kneeling form. “Without that half, you’re not stable,” he said, and laid a tiny hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You were stronger, and absorbed him. You have his powers, and his temper, but beneath that, you’re still Daniel Fenton.”

The comforting warmth continued to thicken around him, and Dan screwed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against Clockwork’s shoulder. “Are you adopting me?” he choked as he recognised the bonds forming between their cores.

He felt the other ghost nod. “Technically, you’ve been my ward for over a thousand years now. I just had to leave you in that thermos until you came to your senses.”

“What, you left me in  _ time out _ for a thousand years?” Dan retorted, but the words lacked any bite.

Small fingers brushed through his flaming hair, and he forced down a shudder at how unexpectedly nice it felt.

“You needed to experience regret,” Clockwork explained, and gently pulled back from the hug. “You had to want to change the past so badly that you’d do  _ anything.  _ You weren’t going to change until you were ready to.”

Dan leaned against the wall again. He still felt wonderfully warm and  _ cared for _ in a way that he never had, not even during his distant, fleeting time alive. “I do,” he said, and tried not to think about how cheesy this all was, “and I will.”

Clockwork smiled then, and the scar that slashed through his eye crinkled with the expression. He reached out a hand and Dan grasped it. “Come,” he said, shifting into the form of a young adult and pulling Dan off the floor with the change. “You have some time travelling to do.”


End file.
